


Blurring the Lines

by Arathe



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Flushed Romance | Matesprits, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:23:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arathe/pseuds/Arathe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes wandering off with a murderclown on the loose, and Karkat has to save him from his own stupidity. </p>
<p><i>You’re tired and crankier than usual and off-kilter and you’re totally blowing this out of proportion. You are going to find John and drag him back to safety by his stupid blue hood and everything’s going to be</i> fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blurring the Lines

**Author's Note:**

> Pale Karkat/Gamzee, and sort of pale but maybe a little flushed John/Karkat.
> 
> My first foray into the Homestuck fandom! It was a bit challenging, mostly because it was my first shot at 2nd person, but also because Karkat's a tricky POV character. Can I also just say that I'm really fascinated with the concept of moirallegiance? Because I really, really am.

You are neck deep in a fucking logistical _nightmare,_ and if you trip over another one of Egbert’s stupid fucking salamanders you are going to have a meltdown of truly epic proportions. Apparently Harley brought every damned living thing in the game along on that stupid ship of hers, and you’ve spent the last three days trying to organize this gigantic clusterfuck into some semblance of order without much success. It could be worse, you suppose. You could be dealing with Noir already.

You open the door to the common room, and three salamanders spill against your legs before scrambling down the hall amidst a chorus of glubs. You take a deep breath and try to quell the urge to go on a murderous rampage, because as nice as that’s starting to sound, you just don’t have the fucking time to go performing any kind of acrobatics off the goddamn handle. You sag against the doorframe and suddenly you want Gamzee with a ferocity that aches. You’ve just felt so _unstable_ since the others arrived, since John had catapulted off the deck before the ship even touched down and grabbed you in a crushing grip that seemed designed to make your insides into your outsides, grinning like a damned moron.

But no, your moirail has to be completely shithive maggots, even if he hasn’t upped the body count in well over a sweep. Small favors, but you’ve only seen him a handful of times since then, brief glances at best, and it’s like he’s turned into a fucking ghost. He’s vanished into the bowels of the meteor and no matter how much you look you can never find him, and it scares you because you know he isn’t okay. Not anywhere close, and no one but you is allowed to wander outside the common areas alone because you’re terrified he’s going to kill someone else if you aren’t there to shooshpap him into oblivion. 

And yeah, you’re a little bitter because you could use a good pile and some papping of your own, just until you get your balance back. Which is fucking stupid because you’ve functioned without a moirail for this long, and the work isn’t going to go away just because you’re feeling like a sniveling little wiggler. You give yourself a shake, scanning the room. John is of course nowhere to be seen because why should anything make your life easier? Jade’s there, head bowed low with Rose and Kanaya conspiring about who knows what. Something else that’s going to give you a fucking headache, probably. “Harley!” you snap, stomping over.

She lifts her head and blinks at you, and you are never going to get used to those barkbeast ears on her head. “Karkat?”

“Where the fuck is Egbert? I need him to get his stupid consorts out from underfoot or I am going to start using them for target practice,” you snarl.

Jade has the gall to look amused. “I think he said he was going to explore.”

A hot stone of dread lodges in your gut. “With who?” you ask. Rose and Kanaya are watching the exchange now. Strider. Strider’s not here and he’s probably with John and you’re worrying for nothing because it’s all you can seem to do these days.

Jade frowns, and you know she can read you like a book even though you only met face to face three days ago. “By himself. What’s wrong?”

“You didn’t _tell them?”_ you shriek at the others. Kanaya has the grace to look guilty, but Rose has that stupid smug, ‘I-know-something-you-don’t-know’ smile that makes you want to throttle her more often than not. “Shit. Shit, okay, it’s probably fine.” You drag a hand done your face and take a steadying breath. You’re tired and crankier than usual and off-kilter and you’re totally blowing this out of proportion. You are going to find John and drag him back to safety by his stupid blue hood and everything’s going to be _fine._

“Do you know which way he he went?” you ask, urgent.

“No, but,” Jade’s eyes go glassy for a moment and then she blinks once, twice and points. “That way, past the computer lab. Do you-”

You don’t wait to hear the rest, bolting in the opposite direction you came from. It’s stupid, it’s _stupid,_ Gamzee hasn’t caused any trouble in over a sweep, so why does your gut feel like it’s turned to lead? And sure, John’s probably moronic enough to let Gamzee kill him, but he’s god tier, he wouldn’t stay dead because there’s nothing heroic about getting decapitated by a fucking clown.

Of course, you’re not really sure how regenerative abilities stack up against decapitation and you really don’t want to find out. You skid around the corner past the computer lab, bellowing John’s name. You pause and the only answer is your own harsh panting. Stupid fucking human wandering off with a murderclown on the loose, you are going to _strangle_ him just as soon as you make sure he’s okay.

You start up again at a trot, not a run, because you’re overreacting. You take a deep breath and tell yourself to settle the fuck down. It doesn’t really help. Luckily it’s all one long, zigzagging corridor until you reach the lower levels, and John couldn’t have gotten so far so quickly. You call John’s name periodically and try not to let the panic ratchet up when he fails to answer.

Honk.

You’re halfway down a flight of stairs when you hear it, familiar and terrifying and your stomach turns itself inside out. You bolt down the stairs, taking three at a time because fuck dignity and what if you’re too late? You scramble around the corner, bouncing hard off the wall and there they are, in the short hallway before the corridor loops back on itself.

Gamzee has John pulled tight against his chest, claws in his throat and bright red blood _everywhere,_ like your worst nightmare on display. It’s only after John grins weakly and says “Hi Karkat,” that you remember to breathe.

“Shut up, you stupid bulgelicker,” you snarl, turning your attention to Gamzee. He’s watching you with flat eyes and a smile that makes you want to throw up. “Let him go, Gamzee.”

He doesn’t relax his grip. “Hey there, my little palebro. Look who I found up and motherfucking wandering around.” He sounds calm and unconcerned, and you can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“That’s because he’s a fucking moron,” you say, stepping forward. Gamzee’s grip on John tightens and he moves back, eyes narrowed. Shitshitshit. How are you supposed to shoosh him if you can’t get close to him? “Gamzee. Let him _go._ ”

“Now why would I up and do a MOTHEFUCKING thing like that? Me and my little windybro here were just getting friendly.” He punctuates the statement by digging his claws in deeper. John chokes and a wind kicks up from nowhere, stirring your hair. You hope it’s just a reaction to the danger and that John isn’t about to do something monumentally stupid, because Gamzee could tear his throat out in the blink of an eye. You catch John’s eye, doing your best to telepathically project the order to calm the fuck down. Miracle of miracles, he seems to get the message and the wind dies down again.

“Gamzee,” you say, doing your best to keep your voice soft and calming as possible. It’s hard, because you’re a lot better at loud and abrasive, but fuck if you’re going to get John killed because of it. “You haven’t hurt anyone for a long time. Don’t start again.”

The words don’t have the desired effect, because Gamzee goes rigid. “Don’t start?” He laughs, and there’s nothing sane in the sound. It crawls over your skin dark and broken and it makes you want to hold him and never stop, when it should really make you want to run and never look back. “I never motherfucking STOPPED, my brother. Can’t go back, can never go BACK. What’s broke all up in here can’t be fixed, little palebro.” He looks at you, and under the insanity you see something sad and lonely and you know that he’s missed you just as much as you’ve missed him. You’re the only person safe from him, because even in the depths of his madness he’d never hurt you.

Inspiration hits like a shock of cold water. Gamzee would never hurt you.

“He’s my matesprit!” you blurt before you can second guess yourself.

The twin expressions of stunned surprise on John and Gamzee’s faces would have been hilarious if the situation wasn’t so fucked up. Gamzee glances down at the top of John’s head with a flicker of confusion, and you take advantage of his distraction to scramble close, squashing John between the two of you as you reach up for Gamzee’s face. This close you can smell the blood, and you take a moment to hope that John has the presence of mind to keep his stupid fucking mouth closed. Gamzee’s looking at you now, and you pap his face, doing your best to smooth the frown lines between his brows. “But-” he begins.

“Shoosh,” you say, papping his cheeks. “You wouldn’t hurt my matesprit,” you say with a confidence you don’t quite feel. Gamzee stares at you, and you can feel him relaxing by inches until his arms drop to his sides. John squirms out from between you, and you don’t think you’ve ever been so relieved in your life. You can’t spare the attention to make sure he’s all right, but he’ll probably live.

You keep papping, face, hair, shoulders, shooshing Gamzee every time he tries to speak and eventually he folds his long frame against yours, tucking his head against your shoulder in a hunched arc that couldn’t be comfortable. You stroke matted, dirty hair and say with rough affection, “You stupid clown. Come back with me.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, and Gamzee twitches and pulls away from you. You reach out to tug him back, but he captures your hands with a shake of his head. When they meet yours, his eyes are more lucid and less scary-calm. “No can do, my brother. Can’t go back,” he says, like it’s immutable fact and not completely stupid. Now that John’s out of imminent peril the anger comes rushing in.

“Why the fuck not?” you demand, suddenly furious. You are sick and fucking tired of this one-sided moirail shit, of being responsible for shooshpapping Gamzee out of his crazy once every few sweeps only for him to vanish on you. “Did it never penetrate your stupid, addled thinkpan that maybe I need _my_ moirail?”

Gamzee reaches out, fitting his large hand against your face and you lean into it with a desperate, involuntary sound. Fingertips move along your hairline, and you needed this more than you realized. “You’ve got yourself a motherfucking matesprit now, my brother.” You frown, because Gamzee is crazy, not stupid, and he knows that’s not the same thing. Even if it wasn’t complete and utter panic-inspired hoofbeastshit in the first place. His gaze shifts, seeking out John over your shoulder and his voice goes cold. “You’ll up and take real good motherfucking care of him, won’t you my windybro?” There’s only one right answer to that question, and you hope John plays along because if you have to settle Gamzee down again you are going to kill John _yourself._

“Of course I will,” John says, so quiet and absolute that _you_ almost believe him, and you know this whole matesprit thing is a big steaming pile of shit. Egbert can act, who knew?

Gamzee nods at John like they’ve come to some sort of understanding, then grabs you by the shoulders, spins you around, and shoves you into John’s arms. You sputter, stumbling against him before finding your feet and whirling on Gamzee just in time to see him abscond. You chase after him, but when you round the corner the corridor is empty.

Gamzee’s gone.

“Get back here you cowardly bulgemuching nookstain!” Your words echo down the corridor, and you sigh, scrubbing your face. He’s not coming back and you know it. Stupid piece of shit moirail.

“Hey,” John touches your elbow. You turn to get a good look at him. He’s a little pale, enough blood spilling down his shirt to be alarming with one hand clasped over his throat, but you figure he’ll live. He smiles a little crookedly. “Thanks for the save.”

You want to get angry, to get a good lather going and rip him a new one. But you’re exhausted suddenly, and you can’t manage more than a bit of exasperation and a lot of relief. “Wouldn’t have been an issue if you hadn’t wandered off on your own like a moron,” you gripe.

He smiles. “Sorry.” He glances down the hallway and then back at you, “So, uh-”

“Later,” you say, grabbing his free arm and dragging him back the way you came. He’s going to ask about the matesprit thing, and you don’t know if Gamzee is still lurking. You’re not sure how he’d react to being lied to, but you imagine it wouldn’t be good.

John takes the hint and begins rambling about his run in with Gamzee instead. You only listen with half an ear, dragging him back to the civilization. Except the last thing you want to do is face other people now, answer questions, so you make a detour for your respiteblock instead. “-just poof, outta nowhere! Scared the crap out of me, haha. Er, where are we going?”

“To patch you up,” you say, shoving him through the door. Your respiteblock isn’t much, just your piss poor replacement for a recuperacoon pile and a sweep and a half worth of accumulated odds and ends. You shove John down into the only chair and retrieve a bottle of water from your sylladex, along with the bandages you’ve started keeping ever since you began strifing with Strider on a regular basis. Not that he’s better than you, because he’s not. He just fucking _cheats._

You peel John’s hand, tacky with drying blood, away from his throat. The puncture wounds are deep, but aren’t as bad as you’d feared, and you scrounge up a towel, wet it, and begin cleaning the blood away. John takes a sharp breath but doesn’t complain, doesn’t say anything at all, and that’s kind of suspicious because he hasn’t stopped fucking talking since he got here.

“You really love him, don’t you? Gamzee.” His voice is soft and thoughtful, nothing at all like his usual inane babbling and you still. You don’t want to talk about Gamzee, because thinking about him makes you sick and wistful and angry, and it’s none of John’s fucking business anyway.

“I’m not having a feelings jam with you, Egbert,” you growl, swiping at the blood with a little more force than necessary.

He’s quiet, and after a minute or two you relent a little, just to fill the silence. “He’s my moirail,” you say, like it explains everything. Because it does. Or it would, if humans weren’t all enormous palesluts.

“Which one is a moirail again?” he asks a little sheepishly, and you draw back a little and stare. You’re glad he’s not asking about Gamzee anymore, but fucking seriously?

“Didn’t we already have this fucking conversation at some point?” You don’t believe this kid. What’s so hard to grasp about simple quadrants?

“Dude, I haven’t even talked to a troll in three years,” he says, defensive, and you snort and grab the hem of his shirt.

“Arms up.”

John blinks at you. “Uh?”

“It’s a simple, two-word command, Egbert. Lift your arms,” you repeat, tugging at his shirt a little. “This thing is covered in blood. You can borrow one of mine after I get your neck bandaged.” You aren’t sure why you’re doing this instead of passing him off to the girls. Maybe because you feel responsible, in a way. Like saving his worthless hide in the first place wasn’t enough.

“Oh, right.” He lifts his arms obediently, and you tug his shirt off more gently than you really mean to. You go back to cleaning the blood from his collarbone and he prompts, “So, moirails?”

Stupid fucking humans and their inability to retain basic fucking information. You sigh. Whatever. “The pale quadrant,” you explain. “Your moirail is your balance. It’s like, hm.” You grab the roll of bandages, trying to figure out how to couch it in terms a human would understand. “A good moirallegience is based on mutual care. Moirails are supposed to keep each other from swinging to wild extremes and to calm each other down when they do. They also tend to help you sort out your other quadrants.” You remember an old conversation with Rose on the topic. “More than friends, but less than lovers is how Lalonde put it, if you really want to fucking oversimplify things. Highbloods tend to need moirails more than the rest, because they’re more likely to be-” you cut yourself off and sigh. You don’t want to talk about this any more.

“Damaged?” John supplies.

“Yeah.” You swallow around a sudden thickness in your throat, thinking of Gamzee. Yeah, damaged is a good word. “Highblood psychosis,” you grumble. “It’s a thing.”

“So does that mean Gamzee isn’t being a very good moirail then?” John asks, lifting his chin as you begin winding the bandage around his throat. “Since he’s never around?”

“Of course he’s not being a good moirail!” you snarl. Fuck John for making you think about things you don’t want to. Fuck him right in his moronic fucking face. John coughs as you tie off the bandage with more force than necessary. “Not that my relationship with Gamzee is any of your fucking business, you witless nooksniffer, but yeah. It’s pretty much complete shit. That was the first time I’ve even talked to him in over a sweep, and it was to calm him out of murdering someone again. I worry about him all the fucking time, I worry that the next time someone dies it’ll be because I wasn’t there to talk him down!”

“Karkat--” John’s voice is soft and sympathetic and you steamroll right over him because you don’t want to fucking hear it.

“This time that someone was almost you,” you growl. “I know it probably can’t penetrate your shield of blinding dumbfuck optimism, but he would have _killed you._ Gamzee is completely shithive, and if it hadn’t been for your stupid salamanders driving me crazy I wouldn’t have come looking, I wouldn’t have been there and Gamzee would have ripped your stupid frail human throat out.” You’re babbling and you know it, but you just can’t seem to shut the fuck up. “And I _know_ that you’re god tier --I’m not the fucking moron in the room-- and that there’s nothing heroic or just in getting jumped by a psychopath, but not dying might have been worse when Gamzee dragged you off to wherever--”

“Karkat.” John interrupts, and there’s nothing different in his voice but for some reason it brings your tirade to a stop.

“ _What?_ ”

“Your hands are shaking.”

They are. You’re trembling like a frightened fucking wiggler, and you growl and clench them into fists to stop it. It doesn’t work. “Get out.”

“But--”

“I said get out!” you snarl, suddenly furious, and you can’t figure out if it’s at yourself, or John, or Gamzee. “You’re going to live, happy endings for all, now get the fuck out of my face.” These days it feels like you’re running on nothing but willpower, and you’re rapidly running out. The last thing you want is for John to see you in a moment of weakness. More than he already has, anyway.

John huffs but doesn’t argue. You move back to let him up, but instead of absconding the fuck out like he ought to, he grabs you and pulls you against his chest. You stumble, startled, and he tucks your head against his shoulder and strokes the other down your back. “W-what the _fuck,_ Egbert,” you sputter against his collarbone, trying to pull away.

He holds you tighter, refusing to let go. “Shoosh. Relax.”

Against your better judgement, you do just that. You stand awkwardly in the circle of his arms, face buried in his shoulder, and the tension drains out of you. John rests his cheek against your hair, his hand stroking down your back in long, steady motions, from nape to the small of your back over and over. It’s so ridiculously soothing that it takes you a minute to realize what he’s doing. “What the fuck Egbert?” you say, but you can’t seem to dredge up any venom. “Are you shooshpapping me?”

You feel him smile against your hair. “Am I?” Sometimes you think John isn’t half as clueless as he likes to pretend. You snort and close your eyes because the stroking hasn’t stopped. You know you should pull away because this is all pretty inappropriate, and he’d probably let you go now.

You don’t.

There’s something in your throat that tastes like guilt. You swallow. “I’m really fucking flattered,” you say, shooting for sarcasm and falling short somewhere around tired. “But I already have a moirail.”

“I know,” John says, and he’s not smiling anymore. He sounds soft and sad and you wish you’d been stronger, that he hadn’t seen you crumple when Gamzee touched your face. He’s human, he can’t possibly understand and you aren’t sure if that’s better or worse. “I’m not hitting on you, Karkat. You just obviously needed a hug.”

“A hug,” you repeat. _Obviously._ Humans are so fucking incomprehensible. Most trolls would be trying to figure out how best to take advantage of your show of weakness, not playing substitute moirail.

“Yeah,” he says, and the smile’s back. “It’s this things humans do when their friends are upset.”

He hasn’t stopped stroking you the entire time, and you’re starting to feel boneless and heavy, exhaustion making itself known now that you don’t feel wound tight for the first time in forever. “Humans are so weird,” you mutter. “Palesluts.”

John chuckles against your head and the vibration in your horns feels strangely pleasant. “I guess it must seem that way.”

Suddenly all you want to do is pull John into your pile, curl up in his arms and sleep for a perigee. You think he’d let you, because that’s just how he is, but you feel guilty enough already and that would be a step too far. Gamzee might be a piss-poor excuse for a moirail, but he is your moirail. Not John. Who is incidentally going to make someone a _fantastic_ moirail someday, or however it works for humans, because he is a fucking natural when it comes to this shit, jegus. Guilt aside, you feel calm and relaxed for the first time in ages; your anxieties swept away by the rhythmic motion of the hand on your back. You wish it were Gamzee, because you’re a born romantic and you can’t fucking help it, but John isn’t a bad stand-in.

“He did tell me to take care of you,” John says like he can read your fucking mind.

You snort. “That’s because he thinks you’re my matesprit.”

The stroking stops and you make a small noise of protest before you can stop yourself. John doesn’t seem to notice, his arm settling around your waist. “Yeah, uh. About that. That’s the romantic quadrant, right?”

You roll your eyes and sigh, pulling back. John lets you go, and you try not to miss the contact. It was nice while it lasted. “They’re _all_ romantic quadrants, moron.”

“Er, right.” John laughs a little, rubbing the side of his nose. “I meant more like human romance? I guess?”

“I suppose so.” It’s certainly the only quadrant that seems to make any sense to them. Humans are so fucking bizarre it hurts your head sometimes.

John hums and lapses into thoughtful silence, and you take the opportunity to dig out one of your sweaters and toss it to him. He’s spent quite enough time standing in the middle of the room with no shirt. He pulls it over his head with a muffled thanks. The sleeves are too short and the shoulders too narrow, because like everyone else John has the unmitigated fucking gall to be both taller and broader than you are, but it’ll serve.

John pushes the sleeves up to his elbows and asks, “Why did you tell him I was your, um.”

“Matesprit,” you supply.

John turns an interesting shade and pink and mumbles, “Yeah, that.” How the fuck he can be inappropriately pale with you one moment, but get embarrassed just _talking_ about matesprits the next, you have no fucking clue.

“Because that stupid clown is out of his fucking thinkpan, but he’d never hurt me. Killing my matesprit would be pretty spectacularly damaging, I figured.” You shrug. “I dunno if it would have done the trick, but it did distract him long enough for me to shooshpap his crazy ass.” It’d worked; that’s all that mattered. You don’t think you could handle another casualty on your watch without having some sort of psychotic fucking break.

Jon accepts this with a nod. “You know, it’s kind of amazing. I mean, trolls can be so volatile, but a little petting and bam! It’s like flipping a switch, you guys calm right down.”

You roll your eyes. Leave it to the human to miss the fucking point by a mile. “That’s not how it works, you ignorant bulgemuncher. If you walk up to a stranger and try to shooshpap him down, you’ll get a fist in the face for your trouble. Probably worse. You can’t just pap and expect it to have any effect, that’s stupid. It requires a lot of trust to permit someone to bring you down and care for you in a moment of weakness. If you hadn’t noticed, trust is something we have in short fucking supply. S’why moirails are so important.”

“Oh,” John says, blue eyes round behind his glasses, like you’d just told him the secrets of the universe and not a basic fucking fact about your species. Then you realize what you’d just inadvertently admitted to, and your stomach twists up in an uncomfortable knot. Well, fuck. “You trust me?”

You want to deflect because there’s nothing more dangerous than trust. It was handing someone a weapon and giving them the key to your armor, and you’ve always been more paranoid than most. But you can’t deny that the instant he’d touched you you’d curled into his arms like a tame meowbeast and let him bring you down. You don’t want to trust John.

But you do.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you grumble.

The grin John flashes you is blinding. “I love you too, Karkat,” he chirps.

“Who said anything about love, you sappy piece of shit? Go the fuck away before I start vomiting rainbows.” Does he have to be so fucking happy all the time? Shit’s disgraceful.

“Okay,” he agreed easily, smile not dimming one bit. “You should probably get some sleep. You look wiped.”

“What are you, my fucking lusus?”

“No, but,” John steps forward and grabs your shirt, tugging you close and resting his forehead against yours. You definitely don’t squeak like a fucking rodent. Nope. Not you. “I promised I’d take care of you.”

It only lasts a moment before he steps away, and you want to say something about promises made under duress and false pretenses not counting, but. He sounded so _sincere_ it was fucking disgusting. You bite your lip and rub the back of your neck and the best you can muster is a totally unconvincing, “Whatever.”

John’s smile softens until it’s mostly eyes. “Night Karkat. Thanks for saving my life.”

You look away, flushing hard enough to make your ears warm. “Yeah, yeah. I’m a fucking hero.” You drop bonelessly onto your pile and pointedly avoid looking at John. “Go away.”

It isn’t until your hear the door click shut that you remember what had you looking for John in the first place. “AND DO SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR FUCKING CONSORTS.”

You hear John laugh and it absolutely doesn’t make you smile.


End file.
